


What Water Slides Off

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Series: Fowl Omens: The Nice and Fluffy Adventures of Mercury J. Crowley, Duck [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ducks, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Flustered Crowley (Good Omens), Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Rated T for language, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: The duckling is so tiny, so vulnerable, curled up and peeping softly. What is he going to do with it? He doesn’t even know why it seems to have decided forhimto be its guardian. He’s the demon who yells at his plants, after all. He can’t… he can’tparent a baby duck!Translation into Russian now available!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Fowl Omens: The Nice and Fluffy Adventures of Mercury J. Crowley, Duck [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741162
Comments: 74
Kudos: 293
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	What Water Slides Off

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to elizabethelizabeth for being my beta reader! You rock!
> 
> Song lyrics belong to Queen.
> 
> ALSO the lovely duplii has translated this into Russian, which can be found [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9804853)! Go give them some love!

2020, London.

All clandestine agents know that the best place to have a clandestine meeting is in public. In a park, or similar open, populated space. Perhaps with a cover like feeding ducks. Feeding ducks in a park in a big city is even better. Feeding ducks in St. James Park in London, well, that’s one of the best.

The angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley figured this out several decades—well, centuries—ago. They can stand at the edge of a pond, or sit together on a bench, with bits of stale bread, and no one will look twice, even as they discuss things like demons and miracles. After all, most of the other people there are doing similar things, meeting without admitting it, and to judge others for doing so would be rather hypocritical.

Of course, what Aziraphale and Crowley are doing at the moment would never be mistaken for a clandestine meeting. Any self-respecting intelligence agent would never be caught dead with his tongue in another’s mouth, not in public like this.

Yes, Aziraphale and Crowley have met in St. James Park, and yes, ostensibly they are there to feed the ducks crusts of old bread. But no, they are not there to meet in secret.

They are quite obviously there on a date.

“Oi,” Crowley says, pulling his mouth off Aziraphale’s and swatting at his hand. “Don’t undo it. I worked hard on that.”

With evident reluctance, Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s hair, which is done up in a bun that’s designed to look effortlessly messy—and, for certain hedonistic angels, utterly tempting.

“Fine,” Aziraphale says with a pout. “But you can hardly blame me. Your hair is rather soft. It begs to be mussed.”

“A time and a place, Angel,” Crowley mutters, making a show of tightening the bun, of tucking a stray lock back into place. His reddening cheeks betray his pleasure, though.

Aziraphale presses one more kiss to his cheek, and they turn back to the pond before them. An eclectic assortment of birds glides across the water—several species of ducks, a few geese, a pair of swans, and a baffled pigeon who has wandered too far from Trafalgar Square and now has no idea what to do with his life. Crowley and Aziraphale take turns tossing bits of bread to them all, leaning on each other and chatting about nothing and exchanging kisses whenever they feel the urge.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be off,” Aziraphale says eventually, as the sun starts to paint gold and pink streaks on the clouds. “There’s that first edition Wharton I want to start. Are you coming back to the bookshop tonight?”

Crowley glances down. There is one piece of bread left, and besides, the weather is nice. He’s still getting used to this feeling—contentment. He’s loath to leave yet, to break the spell.

“Nah,” he says. “I think I’ll finish feeding them and then head home.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle at the corners, as if he understands what Crowley is feeling. And perhaps he is, what with his ability to sense emotions and all. Once, that skill had frightened Crowley, but now that they’ve started snogging and all, now that he knows his desire is mutual, he doesn’t mind being an open book so much.

“All right. I’ll see you soon?”

The hope in Aziraphale’s voice makes him smile. It’s a reminder that they’re _both_ stunned and delighted that they’ve managed to find this, after all these years. It isn’t only Crowley.

So he smiles and says, “Yeah, of course.”

Aziraphale turns to face him, then leans in. Crowley returns the kiss, thrilled by it even though it is not the first, nor the hundredth, kiss they’ve shared. “See you later.”

Aziraphale nods, their noses bumping. He pulls away then and stands, giving Crowley one last fond look before leaving. Crowley fancies that the spring in his step is present because of him.

Once Aziraphale is out of sight, Crowley turns his attention back to the pond. He tosses another chunk of bread to the gathered waterfowl. One, he notices, is a small duckling, unaccompanied by a parent or legal guardian, from what he can tell. It’s tiny, barely a few inches tall, with brown and yellow… fur? Fluff? Whatever birds have; he doesn’t know.

When he prepares to toss the last bit of bread into the center of the pond, standing to get a better vantage point of the soon-to-ensue chaos, the lone duckling waddles up to him. He pays the creature no heed, though, focusing on throwing accurately.

He tosses the crust, and the pond erupts in a momentary cacophony of feathers and squawks. A swan lets out an indignant screech when a wood duck snaps up the bread right under its beak, and Crowley grins.

As the madness dies down, though, Crowley becomes aware of something small nudging at his foot. He looks down to find that same duckling rubbing against his shoe, making soft peeping noises.

Well, that’s different.

“Go on,” Crowley urges, waving toward the water. “No more bread, sorry. Er… shoo?”

The duckling doesn’t heed him, and even follows when Crowley takes a few steps away. He looks around at the mingling waterfowl.

“Whose is this?” he asks, but receives no response. The confused pigeon eyes him with suspicion but ignores the duckling. “Anyone? No takers? Urgh.”

Crowley scowls and looks down at the duckling, which peers up at him with an innocent expression.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps and turns on his heel.

Indignant peeping follows him, and he whirls to find the little menace has tailed him down the path.

“No,” he groans, then points to the ground. “You stay here.”

To make sure his point has got across, he steps away. The duckling steps forward. Crowley steps away. The duckling steps forward.

“You live _here_.” Crowley kneels down and growls at it. It chirps at him and, apparently eager to get tossed into the pond, waddles up and nuzzles against his shoe again.

He reaches down, his only intention to brush it off—but, oh.

It feels so fragile, like it could very well shatter in a strong wind. And it’s… soft. The texture of its feathers (fuzz? pelt? whatever) reminds Crowley of Aziraphale’s hair. And the way it gazes up at him…

No. Nope. Not happening. He might not be a _competent_ demon, but he’s still no angel. He can’t very well go around saving abandoned baby animals…

He glances up when a fluttering of wings starts up nearby. A parent and her child are now tossing breadcrumbs, attracting many of the birds. The duckling notices too, and it’s then that Crowley seizes his chance to escape.

Ten seconds later, though, once he’s finished congratulating himself for his cleverness, he hesitates. A loud honk has reached his ears, as has a softer but already-familiar peep.

The first sound has come from a goose, one of those dark-feathered, angry ones. The vile creature’s wings are spread, and it’s making quite a nuisance of itself now that it’s recognized food is around again. Several of the nearby park-goers edge away, as do the other birds.

The duckling scurries away, but its too-large feet trip over themselves, and it lands beak-first in the grass.

Under his breath, Crowley mutters a curse that would make Satan himself raise his eyebrows. He strides to the side of the pond and hisses back at the irate goose. Before it can do anything but rear back in astonishment at being challenged, Crowley has stepped around it and scooped up the duckling.

The duckling chirrups in surprise, but burrows into Crowley’s hands quite happily, its tail flicking. Its dark round eyes, again, peer up at him with a startling amount of trust.

“Oh, shut up,” he says.

He hurries back to the Bentley, still cradling the bird to his chest, and dives into the driver’s seat. Once inside, though, he pauses. He can’t hold the duckling the entire drive; this is a terrible enough situation for his reputation as it is. He can’t very well… _cuddle_ with it.

So he drops it into the cupholder and turns the car on. The duckling cheeps incessantly, sounding almost offended at being dumped into this space. Crowley lasts two minutes before he groans and scoops it up again. He snaps the fingers of his other hand, and a pocket appears in his jacket. The duck, luckily, is content to nestle down in it and go quiet.

Crowley, in spite of himself, turns down the music during the drive to not disturb it. However, after a few minutes, it chirps in irritation when he turns off Queen’s “I Want To Break Free,” and doesn’t stop until he turns it back on.

“Ah, so you _do_ have ears under there somewhere,” he says. “Good. Glad I’ve resolved that, finally.”

_Peep!_

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you?” he asks. But he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

He parks the Bentley with reckless abandon—not his fault the curb is there, is it?—and hurries inside his flat. Not much has changed in the months since the world almost ended, other than that several of Aziraphale’s books, knickknacks, and teacups have migrated here.

Crowley pauses near his plants, pondering what to do with the duckling.

“What?” he snaps at the nearest fern. “Shut up! It’s a duck. Mind your own business!”

He moves into the next room, plops the duckling onto his desk, sinks into his chair, and stares. The duckling is so tiny, so vulnerable, curled up and peeping softly. What is he going to do with it? He doesn’t even know why it seems to have decided for _him_ to be its guardian. He’s the demon who yells at his plants, after all. He can’t… he can’t _parent a baby duck!_

The internet yields surprisingly helpful tips, however. Crowley spends nearly an hour scrolling through various websites. He may as well make the little one comfortable for the night, before he takes it back to the park in the morning. Surely by then it will have overcome its delusion and realized it’s made a terrible mistake, coming home with Crowley.

He finds a box, which Aziraphale had used to bring over a few more of his belongings a fortnight ago, and miracles up some straw. Once the duckling is installed inside with a shallow bowl of water, Crowley relaxes and watches it gambol about.

This won’t be so bad. Besides, it’s only for one night.

— — — 

This is bad.

“Do you have to splash so much?” he grumbles. “This is the third time I’ll have to change this straw!”

The duckling seems unbothered, too busy eating the food pellets Crowley has miracled.

So far, over the course of two hours, this disaster of an animal has managed to upend the bowl of water on itself, serenade the plants with raucous non-stop chirping, eat far more than Crowley believed was possible for such a little thing, and produce far more droppings than should be allowed anywhere ever.

Do people seriously raise these things by choice?

The duckling finally steps away from its food, fluttering its minuscule wings in satisfaction.

“About time,” Crowley says. He scoops it up so he can swap out the old, sodden, rapidly mildewing straw with a fresh pile. As he’s finishing that, he notices the duckling is trembling, and looks down at it where it stands on the floor beside him.

“Are you cold?” he asks. “You’re still a bit damp. Here—”

He dries it with his scarf (he’s already disheveled from all this, so what’s a little more?) and lets it curl into his pocket again. It chirps softly, as if contented.

“All right, all right.” He clears away the old straw and finds himself humming Queen. “You’re a menace,” he adds between verses, in case anyone Above or Below is listening.

— — — 

“Noooo,” he groans and dives for the duckling. “Stop trying to eat him. That’s not good for you!”

He tugs the chirping duckling away from a squat succulent and holds it (him? Her? Them? He still isn’t sure, so “it” is the best he has right now. Because he is _not_ attached to it) up to his eyes. “If you’re going to insist on dashing around the place like you own it, you’ve got to follow my rules, all right? Or else I’ll take you back to the park right now and let the geese torment you.”

The duckling doesn’t appear threatened. Instead, it lets out a quiet peep and fidgets in his grasp, so its down brushes across his skin.

“Don’t try to manipulate me,” he warns. “It won’t work. Just because you’re soft and innocent…”

He glares for another moment, then sighs and places the duckling back on the ground.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he calls, watching it scamper away to explore in a new direction. “You’re trying to make me like you. But I’m not an angel; I don’t like baby animals.”

_Peep!_

Crowley frowns, and his gaze darts to the beleaguered-looking succulent, which seems relieved to have been spared the duckling’s beak. “What are you looking at?”

— — —

In bed, Crowley rolls over onto his other side. Again. It’s past three; he should be asleep. And yet, from the other room—

_Peep! Peep! Peep!_

“Ugh, what?” he shouts. “What can you possibly want right now? You’ve eaten, you’ve had water, and you have clean straw. Go to sleep!”

A pause, filled with beautiful silence.

_Peep! Peep! Peep!_

“Please,” Crowley begs, rolling onto his back and pressing a pillow to his face. “God. Satan. Somebody. If this is punishment for something, I’m sorry, a’right? I am _sorry_. Whatever I did, I apologize.”

_Peep! Peep! Peep!_

Crowley bares his teeth, flings back the covers, and stalks into the next room. The duckling stands in the middle of its box but stops its caterwauling when Crowley looms over it.

“What,” he says, crouching, “do you want.”

_Peep!_

It’s shivering again, and Crowley remembers reading on one of the websites about heat lamps to keep ducklings warm.

He sighs. “Ruining my reputation, you are,” he declares, lifting the box and carrying it into his bedroom. It _is_ rather cold in the sitting room, isn’t it? The bedroom has always been warmer. Besides, if this will shut the ridiculous thing up, fine. He can put up with a duckling in his bedroom for one night.

He places the box on Aziraphale’s side of the bed and lies back down. “Happy?” he asks.

_Peep!_

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, for the love of all that is… Well, just go to sleep.”

He doesn’t hear a peep for the rest of the night.

— — — 

In the morning, he dresses in a hurry, then scoops up the duck from the box before it can so much as wiggle its tail. “Morning, you little beast. Get a waddle on, let’s get you back home.”

It peeps contentedly, and snuggles into his hand. He huffs at it and drops it into his pocket again. “Shut up.”

He gets as far as the front steps of the building, confident in his mission, before pulling up short. It’s pouring rain, the sky dark gray and ominous, intermittent lightning illuminating the otherwise dark London skyline before him.

The duckling chirps, and he glances down at it. Abruptly, he imagines it drenched and shivering back at the pond, alone again. He knows from his research yesterday that ducks this young aren’t waterproof yet, and in this deluge… Well.

And then there’s the matter of that angry goose…

He curses under his breath. “Fine! You can stay, but just until the storm is over, and not a second longer, understand?”

_Peep!_

“Oh, don’t rub it in.” He turns on his heel and heads back inside, just as a massive thunderclap shakes the whole building.

He’s a demon, yes, but he’s dating an angel. If Aziraphale ever got wind of the fact that Crowley left an orphaned duckling to fend for itself in this weather… Well, Crowley can’t have that.

Besides, it’s just until the storm passes.

— — —

By late afternoon, it’s still raining. Crowley whiles away the hours watching telly, scolding his plants, cleaning the straw in the duckling’s box, and keeping the troublesome creature from getting into too much trouble.

At the moment, however, the duck is calm, having found an acceptable perch on the arm of Crowley’s couch. He glances over and notices its eyes are closed. As he watches, its head dips, then jerks back up with a shake of its tail, eyes flying open. Then, inevitably, its head dips back down again, eyelids drooping.

“You can go to sleep,” he tells it in a whisper. “No rule says you can’t.”

It doesn’t reply, but this time, when its head drops, it stays resting against the duck’s chest for several seconds. And then, its head pops up again. Crowley watches as it shakes its head vigorously, blinking as if to clear its thoughts and stay awake. Shit, he shouldn’t find this so damn _adorable_.

“Damn you,” he mutters. “Why do you have to be so convincing?”

Maybe it’s Aziraphale’s angelic influence, but how can Crowley justify tossing this animal back to the vicious wild? How can he do that, knowing it would be in danger?

The duckling blinks, more aware-looking now, and starts to walk toward Crowley. But its leg slips over the arm of the couch, and Crowley has to make a desperate dive to save it from tumbling to the ground. Before he’s realized what he’s doing, he’s pulled the squeaking duck to his chest protectively.

“You silly goose,” he gasps, half-laughing with relief. “You could’ve given me a heart attack. Not… not that I have a heart or anything.”

The duckling wiggles, practically nuzzles him, and Crowley wonders how the bloody hell he’s ever been considered himself even a mediocre demon. “You’ve got to stay safe, yeah?” he says, mustering a glare. “But only because I’ll be in trouble with Aziraphale if you don’t.”

— — —

Since he’s stuck with the duckling for a bit longer, he decides to do some more research, while his house guest splashes around in the kiddie pool (black, of course) that he’s added to the decor of the sitting room.

He reads for a few minutes before stumbling across a sentence that sends icy dread through to his very core.

“What do you mean, you’re not supposed to eat bread?” he asks the duckling. “Did you know this? Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a strangled noise. “Listen, I… I didn’t know, okay? And… oh, shit, Aziraphale. There’s no way he knew this. He would never have fed you bread if he knew… Don’t be mad at him, okay? He didn’t mean it. Look, we’ll make this right. I dunno how, but… maybe Aziraphale could make signs at the park?”

He crouches down next to the pool and looks the duckling in the eye. “You’re feeling all right, aren’t you? You’re not feeling sick?”

It paddles close to him, head bobbing and tapping against his hand. “Good,” he sighs. “We’ll get you on a better diet from now on. Like I said, we can’t have Aziraphale getting upset if he finds out about this. Not that he’s going to find out.”

— — —

By evening, the duckling seems to have found its favorite perch—Crowley’s shoulder. It’s climbed up there almost an hour ago and has refused to come down, even when he sprays it with his plant mister. In fact, it seems to rather enjoy the shower. And all the while, to appease the duck, Freddie sings from Crowley’s phone.

_“This thing called love, it cries (like a baby) in the cradle all night, it swings, it jives—”_

“Song suits you,” Crowley mutters, “you silly goose.”

The duckling peeps at him, and he notices that its head is almost bobbing in time to the music. He gazes contemplatively for a moment.

“Mercury,” he says, trying it out.

The duck peers into his eyes, head tilted slightly. “Mercury,” he says again, more certain now. “That’s what I’ll call you.”

The duckling—Mercury—tilts its head at him quizzically, but before Crowley can say anything further, the phone rings. He scrambles for it, but something within him twists with nervousness when he sees Aziraphale’s name on the screen.

“Okay, you’ve gotta keep it down,” he hisses to Mercury. “He can’t know about you.”

_Peep!_

He groans, plucks Mercury off his shoulder, and sets it on the floor. It scuttles off, and, relieved, he answers the phone.

“Hiya, Angel!” Nope, too enthusiastic.

“Hello, my dear.” Sure enough, Aziraphale sounds surprised, and Crowley grits his teeth. “Is everything all right?”

 _Be cool_ , he tells himself. “Yeah, of course.” He slouches down into the couch—maybe that will help him sound casual. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I just wanted to chat, I suppose. It’s been a while since we saw each other.”

Crowley smirks. “It’s been, what, a day? We used to go centuries without seeing each other.”

“Well, yes, but… that was before.”

Crowley’s smirk evolves into a softer smile. “You missed me,” he says smugly. He leans back farther, his usual chaotic apostrophe position, when peeping from the next room distracts him. He leans over, peering through the doorway. Mercury has wandered into the plant room, and is now tangled in a fern.

 _Shit_.

He must make a distressed noise, because Aziraphale pauses in whatever he’s talking about. “Are you sure everything is—?”

“Yes,” Crowley insists, scrambling to his feet. “It’s fine, I promise. I’m… er, bored, y’know, so I’m walking on the ceiling. I just… erm… tripped on a light.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sounds nonplussed.

“Anyway,” Crowley says as he starts to disentangle the duckling, “what were you saying?” He presses the phone between his ear and shoulder, baring his teeth at a particularly stubborn leaf that’s caught in Mercury’s down.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley tries to pay attention, “what would you say to having a picnic next week, when the weather improves?”

Next week? Crowley can barely imagine making it to the next day, keeping this duckling safe. It’s so small, but getting more and more inquisitive, apparently. Who knows what it’ll be up to in a week? He can’t leave it alone in the house, obviously.

Oh, fuck, he’s a parent now. He can never have a social life again. Unless PTA meetings count. (The “P” does stand for “poultry,” doesn’t it?)

“Look, er… Angel, I… I’m going to have to call you back.” He needs to have a brief existential crisis in private, needs to fully wrap his head around his new role as duck parent. “I’m… y’know, er… having some trouble. With my… plants.”

“Oh, well…” Aziraphale’s voice is disappointed. “Do you need any help?”

Crowley laughs, slightly hysterically. “No offense, but even with your gardening experience as Francis, I don’t think you can help with this.”

“All right. But, darling, are you sure you’re—?”

Crowley manages to extricate Mercury at last, and he pulls it close to him again, smoothing down the ruffled fluff on its back. “I’m fine, I promise,” he says hurriedly. “Nothing… nothing fowl—foul!—happening here, I swear. I’ll talk to you later, bye, love you, laters.”

He hangs up, takes a deep breath to reassure himself, and lifts Mercury to his eye level.

_Peep!_

“See, little goose?” he says. “We’re fine. He doesn’t suspect a thing.”

— — —

An hour later, Mercury has tired of trying to wreak havoc in the plant room and has curled up in Crowley’s shirt pocket. He marvels at how much the duckling seems to have grown in such a short time; he’ll have to make this pocket bigger soon.

“You know,” he says contemplatively to the dozing duckling, “if you’re going to stay, I’ll have to teach you… y’know, things. You’d probably be good at temptations. Your big brown eyes, no one could possibly resist you.”

Mercury lets out an inquisitive peep, gazing up at him. Crowley decidedly does _not_ stroke the top of its head; he’s a demon, remember? He doesn’t _pet ducklings_.

“I’ll make you a demonic minion yet, just you watch and see.” The way he figures it, if he’s going to be taking care of this creature for the foreseeable future, the least it can do is be useful.

Mercury doesn’t protest, just curls deeper into his pocket.

— — —

The next morning, Mercury chirps angrily when Crowley plucks the duckling from its box earlier than usual.

“Up and at ’em, goose! You’ve got a lot to learn, as my apprentice.”

Granted, Crowley has no idea how to begin training a baby duck in his own special brand of demonic chaos-making, but he rarely plans anything—why should this be any different? He can, for lack of a less on-the-nose phrase, wing it.

He sets Mercury in the pool in the living room, letting it splash about to wake up fully. It peeps incessantly, a sound that Crowley is sure will annoy people. However, before he can decide what to teach Mercury first—how to yell at plants? How to manipulate people into snapping at each other over small grievances? How to mess with wi-fi signals just enough so that they load webpages at half the speed?—there is a brisk knock on the door.

Crowley freezes. Mercury looks at him, seeming to sense the abrupt shift of his mood.

“What?” Crowley barks. If it’s a lost delivery person, that tone is sure to send them scurrying.

“Oh, you _are_ home,” a voice on the other side of the door says. “Good, I wasn’t sure.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. Then, a second later, quieter—“Shit.”

He launches himself at the kiddie pool and reaches in. Mercury swims agreeably into his hand, and he lifts it out, drying it off with a hastily miracled towel. “Okay,” he says, “play it cool, all right? Go… er… over there. You like the plants, hang out with them for a bit, yeah?”

He sets Mercury on the floor and nudges it toward the plant room with his toes. It waddles off, though he finds it looks a bit baffled at the sudden change in the morning routine.

“Hang on, Aziraphale!” Crowley calls. He surveys the room. Mercury’s bed/box/feeding area is still in the bedroom, but the kiddie pool is a bit conspicuous.

“Is everything well, Crowley?”

The concern in Aziraphale’s voice makes him flinch. So, though he isn’t quite ready, Crowley replies, “Yeah, yeah, peachy. Come in.”

The kiddie pool should fit beneath the couch, he thinks, and he starts nudging it under with his foot as he hears the door open.

“Hello, dearest. Where are you?”

“In here.” Stupid scalloped edges, get under there!

“I’m sorry to pop over unexpectedly. Only… you sounded odd on the phone last night, and I wanted to see you.”

Crowley flinches. Damn. “Didn’t mean to worry you—”

“Well, hello, beautiful!” Aziraphale says.

Crowley, mostly focused on shoving the last part of the pool under the couch before Aziraphale can notice it, doesn’t turn around yet. At Aziraphale’s words, though, he frowns. “You’ve already greeted me, Angel—”

_Peep! Peep! Peep!_

Shit.

“Whatever are you doing here?” Crowley spins around to find Aziraphale kneeling. It seems that Mercury has emerged from the plant room and approached him hesitantly. “Oh, you’re magnificent, aren’t you? What a lovely lady you are!”

Mercury lets out a nervous chirp, head dipping meekly in response to Aziraphale’s questing hand. Crowley swallows, tensing.

“Lady?” he says before he can stop himself.

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s smile is sunlight when his eyes finally meet Crowley’s. “A healthy female mallard. About a week old, I think? She’s quite fond of you.”

“She?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. _Stop talking, he’ll figure it out,_ a part of his mind cries. But when Aziraphale gazes into his eyes, sense departs. “You shouldn’t assume pronouns,” he adds feebly.

Aziraphale chuckles. “I don’t think ducks have much concept of gender expression, let alone pronouns, my dear. What have _you_ been calling her?”

“I, er…” Crowley clears his throat. “I suppose I’ve been calling her ‘it.’ ”

“Well, that’s _worse_. Honestly. She’s a living being.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle with merriment, and the glare Crowley musters in response to the teasing is, he knows, weak.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale asks after a moment, “what are you doing with her?”

“Nothing,” he blurts. “I’ve never seen her before.” _Stupid, stupid, shut up._

Aziraphale chuckles. He is still on his knees, his hand still outstretched, but the duckling has waddled over to Crowley now, and is hiding behind his feet. “My darling, for a demon, you’re a rather terrible liar sometimes.”

 _Only because you’re you_ , Crowley thinks _. I can’t hide from you anymore, Angel._

Aziraphale stands and steps forward. Behind Crowley’s ankles comes a series of anxious chirps.

“Shh, Mercury, it’s all right,” Crowley says without thinking.

“Mercury?” Aziraphale echoes, perplexed.

Crowley swallows, and his face heats again. “She likes Queen,” he mutters.

Aziraphale smiles. “You never answered my question.”

“What question?” As if he doesn’t know.

“What you’re doing with a duckling as a flatmate.”

“She’s not my—” Crowley starts to protest, indignant, but gives it up as hopeless. There’s no fooling Aziraphale right now, he can tell. “Look, she… She was all alone, and there was this angry goose, and… I dunno, she wouldn’t leave me alone. I don’t know why she decided to pick _me_ to pester, but…” He shrugs.

Aziraphale’s got that look in his eyes, the one Crowley still remembers seeing for the first time in the Globe Theatre—a look of utterly irrepressible fondness. “I know why,” he says. “She could tell you’re kind.”

Crowley scowls, though he’s secretly pleased. “No, I’m n—”

Aziraphale interrupts him, though, by stepping closer and tilting his head up, deliberately enough that any protest within Crowley dissolves to vapor. Their lips meet, and Crowley fancies he can _taste_ Aziraphale’s love for him. It’s the flavor of tea and honey and celestial adoration, and he’s addicted to it.

Fine, so maybe Crowley will agree to being kind if it means he can have this.

_Peep! Peep!_

He breaks the kiss with a huff of frustration and twists around to glare at Mercury. “Do you mind?”

She keeps up her racket, though, skittering around at their feet. Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh, little one, it’s all right.”

He kneels, much to Crowley’s chagrin, and tries to reach for her again. She darts away, and Crowley cannot bear the faint disappointment and hurt that passes over Aziraphale’s countenance.

“Come here,” Crowley says to her, then follows her to where she’s stopped under the end table. “He’s the nicest being in the universe, and you’re going to run away from him? Silly goose.”

After a bit more coaxing, Mercury lets him pick her up and ferry her over toward Aziraphale, whose brows are knit together in endearing confusion. “You do know she’s a duck, my dear.”

“And?” Crowley almost crosses his arms, until he remembers he’s still holding Mercury. “She’s not _your_ duck. I’ll call her what I bloody well want. Now do you want to meet her officially, or not?”

Aziraphale’s hopeful smile is soft as a bird’s down. He extends his hands, and Crowley places the duckling into his palms.

Mercury peeps a few times, but Aziraphale stays still. After a moment, she settles, her tail flicking in a way Crowley now knows means she’s relaxing. He glances up at his angel, and— 

Well, fuck.

And he always thought Aziraphale looked at _him_ with affection.

“Hello there,” Aziraphale coos at her. His entire being, his entire soul, seems to have melted as he holds her. “Sweet little one. We’ll take care of you now.”

“Angel,” Crowley blurts. Ugh, why is he blushing?

“Hmm?” Aziraphale doesn’t look up, one thumb now gently stroking Mercury’s back.

“Fair warning, you’re making me want to kiss you again.”

That gets Aziraphale’s attention. He glances up, a coy smile blooming to life on his lips. “Well, I won’t dissuade you, dearest.”

And so Crowley falls forward—one hand curling over Mercury’s back so they don’t crush her between them—and kisses Aziraphale.

At the touch of his lips, relief washes through him. He misses this when they are apart, has lived with a quiet craving for this under his skin ever since he and Aziraphale parted ways in the park. After spending six millennia carrying a fierce longing to be touched like this, Crowley is still surprised by how much he can ache for it.

Luckily, Aziraphale lifts his hands to tangle in Crowley’s loose waves of hair that fall around his shoulders—good, yes, finally—and kisses back. He pulls Crowley close and turns that piercing ache into a soft, pleasant, painless burn.

_Peep! Peep! Peep!_

Startled, Crowley breaks off the kiss and glares down at Mercury. “I should start calling you Rooster,” he grumbles, “since you’re being such a cock block right now.”

Aziraphale giggles and steps away, stroking Mercury’s back. “Oh, she’s all right. She’s not used to sharing you, that’s all.”

Crowley blinks. “But I’m not snogging her.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Aziraphale laughs. He beams at Crowley, then glances around. “Is there somewhere I can set her down?”

“Oh, well, you could let her run around the flat, but she’ll probably get into some kind of mischief.” He doesn’t quite manage to keep the pride out of his voice at the thought, even if the mischief would be at his expense. “But you could put her in her box or something.”

“Or her pool?” Aziraphale is smirking now. Bastard.

Still, Crowley feigns ignorance. “Her what?”

“Crowley. I saw you trying to hide it.” Shaking his head, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and the kiddie pool reappears in the center of the sitting room. It’s no longer black, though.

“Oi, seriously?” Crowley exclaims, even as he moves to take Mercury from Aziraphale’s hands and deposit her in the water. “A tartan pool?”

“I’ve told you dozens of times, tartan is—”

“Stylish,” Crowley says, affecting an overly posh tone. “Right, okay.”

Once Mercury is happily splashing and peeping, Crowley and Aziraphale retreat to the couch.

“You know,” Aziraphale muses, “I suspect she would like the bookshop.”

If Crowley hadn’t just found a comfortable position, head on Aziraphale’s lap, he would have shot upright. “Excuse me?”

“Well, yes. It’s warm there, and I could get her a small pool, or borrow yours—”

“N—no, hang on.” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s gesticulating hand. “She lives _here_.”

“Well, you aren’t always here, you know,” Aziraphale points out, annoyingly logical. “And unlike the plants, you shouldn’t leave her alone for too long. She needs more care than they do.”

“I— but— ngk,” Crowley says. “You… can’t _have_ her, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s fingers find their way into Crowley’s hair again, brushing out the tangles. “I know, dear.” He sounds amused, and Crowley remembers he should be pretending not to care. “But I don’t think I’d mind taking care of her, sometimes.”

Crowley crosses his arms. He isn’t sure about this.

“Come now, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve done this,” Aziraphale presses, still with that bright tone. “We’d be like godfathers again.”

He has a point. Still, Crowley won’t give in that easily. He peers sternly up at his angel, who looks rather unimpressed by this display. “I’ll consider it,” he concedes. “As long as your promise not to… influence her. I’ve invested a lot of demonic wiles in her upbringing so far, and I don’t want you mucking that up.”

Aziraphale laughs, his head tilting back. “Of course, dear.”

— — —

Three days later, Crowley finds himself pacing around his flat.

His empty, silent flat.

“Can’t you make some noise, or a mess, or something?” he snaps at the plants. They do not reply, or oblige.

Everything feels too still without Mercury and Aziraphale.

He’d sent them off together several hours ago, with a box of supplies and hopefully enough instructions for them both to do well without him.

“She likes to explore, but keep an eye on her,” he had told Aziraphale, who had been wearing that indulgent you’re-such-a-fool-but-an-adorable-fool smile. “And she needs to be warm, so she’ll probably want you to hold her a lot. Just stick her in your coat pocket if you need your hands, that’ll be fine. I packed her food and her water bowl, and miracled the pool to your place. Oh, and don’t feed her bread. Apparently that’s like junk food for ducks, and no table scraps or anything either. Oh, and I put a couple Queen LPs in here, too”—he hefts the bag into Aziraphale’s arms—“so she can fall asleep.” He fixed his eyes on her, where her head protruded from Aziraphale’s coat pocket. “Now, Mercury J. Crowley, you behave yourself.”

Aziraphale had nodded calmly during this string of instructions, then pulled Crowley in for a quick kiss. “Darling, honestly, you needn’t worry. This is just a test to see how it goes. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Crowley had sighed, straightening and slipping his hands into his pockets. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

“And you’ll see us both in the morning.”

He had nodded. “Right. ’S just for one night.”

Now, he wonders how time can move so slowly. What if she’s getting into trouble? What if she’s knocked a pile of books onto herself and is trapped? Worse, what if Aziraphale decides he prefers Mercury’s company to Crowley’s?

The phone ringing nearly makes him jump out of his shoes. “Hello? Angel? Everything okay?”

Aziraphale’s frantic response comes without greeting or preamble. “You didn’t tell me she was _messy_!”

All at once, Crowley’s worry drains from him, and he bursts out laughing—a deep, full-body, uncontrollable laugh. “Welcome to parenthood, Aziraphale.”

“She’s gotten water all over the floor, and keeps trying to eat my books—!” He sounds flustered, frazzled, entirely out of his depth.

Crowley, still giggling, stands up, already going for his coat. “Want me to come over and help?”

“Oh, I don’t know… This was supposed to be a test for me…”

There’s the sound of something toppling over in the background, followed by triumphant peeping. That’s his girl.

Aziraphale’s voice is small. “Yes, please.”

Crowley grins. “Be right there.” And he saunters out of the flat, toward his two favorite beings in all the universe.


End file.
